Dirty Laundry
by nonadhesiveness
Summary: On broken promises, regret and dirty laundry. Attempt at a one-shot, as discussed on Twitter. (There wasn't a 'Depressing AF' option on the genre list, so I opted for 'Angst' instead.)


**Note: **I'm the first to admit that I don't have a clue what I'm doing when it comes to short fiction, but this piece came to me in the waiting room the other week, so I thought I'd write it down. I'd appreciate any thoughts/constructive feedback. Ta.

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**Dirty Laundry**

They fought the morning that it happened. The argument didn't seem significant, or at least not at the time. It wasn't even a proper argument, nor was it about anything that mattered. It was just one of those seven AM spats that have a way of simmering up after day upon day of late nights and predawn starts, after week upon week of work stress encroaching on home.

"Henry…" A slight strain clung to her tone. "Where did you put my red blouse?"

The sound of clothes hangers grating along the metal rail in the closet echoed through to the bathroom. _Swish. Swish. Swish._

Henry leant in closer to the mirror and pulled his skin taut to avoid another nick that would add to the three tissue-wadded cuts that already graced his cheek and jaw. "What red blouse?"

"My red blouse. The one with the ties."

_Swish. Swish. Swish_.

"Why would I have your blouse?" He sloshed the razor in the sudsy water that half-filled the sink, and then shook off the droplets that clung to the plastic head.

Silence.

A moment later, she appeared in the doorway. She clutched a camisole in front of her; her fingers worried the bundle of black silk. "Because you told me you'd pick it up from the dry cleaners. Remember…? I said that I'd ask Blake to collect it, but you promised me you would go."

He stilled, the razor poised a millimetre from the angle of his jaw. He stared at her. _The dry cleaners…_ His eyes widened.

She drew her chin back and turned her head from side to side, the movement as slow as the realisation that crept into her expression. The ends of her hair swayed around her shoulders and shimmered in the yellow-white light. "Henry…"

He dropped the razor with a clatter onto the marble ledge next to the faucet, and then scruffed the hair at the back of his head, all the while avoiding her eye. "Look, babe, you know how hectic things have been—"

"Then don't offer." Her voice shot up. "If you don't have time, then don't promise me you'll do it, then fail to do it, and then not even bother to tell me."

"Hey." His tone sharpened. "I forgot. Okay?"

"No, Henry, it's not okay." She turned on her heel and stalked back to the closet.

The _swish, swish, swish_ came louder and more grating than before.

He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and then picked up the razor and stooped over the sink once more. Scrape. Slosh. Scrape. Slosh. Scrape. Slosh. "Can't you just wear the blue one?"

"No, I can't just _wear the blue one_." Her voice strained, and a hint of the high-pitched crept into her tone. "I wore the _blue one_ to the Women's Conference last week, and—like everything else in this house—it still hasn't been washed, because I've barely been home more than two hours per day for the past God knows how long, and besides, Daisy specifically said it had to be the red blouse today. Red is auspicious."

"Then pick a different one."

"I wouldn't have to pick a different one if you didn't make promises that you can't keep."

He shot a look at the door. "Babe…it's just a blouse."

Her voice faded away along with the pad of her footsteps. "You're not the one having to go to work in dirty clothes."

He didn't know which blouse she had opted for in the end; by the time he emerged from the bathroom, she had gone, and the absence of her motorcade on the street outside left a hollow silence. He probably could have figured out which one she had chosen, though, if he had the mind to take an inventory of the clothes that hung precariously from the ends of the wooden hangers or slumped in the heap on the closet floor.

It was two hours later when she called. Enough time for her to settle in at the office, down her first cup of coffee of the morning before lingering over the second, devour whatever pastry she could find amongst the offerings of the break room and then savour the delicacy du jour that Blake would have brought her from the bakery on the corner, and—most importantly—cool off. He presumed she was calling to apologise about the fight that wasn't really a fight, though there was no need. She'd been stressed recently, more so than usual, and clothes were her calm amongst the chaos. They kept her centred when everything else was out of control. He knew that. He knew there was nothing like dirty laundry to tip her over the edge.

He spoke before she could. "Babe, I'm sorry about earlier. I'll pick it up on my lunch break, I promise, and I'll drop it off before the presentation—"

"Dr McCord." Blake's voice cut in. "The secretary…"

His heart stopped. His tone dropped. "Where is she?"

The corridor passed in a flash of trolley beds, stiff-hemmed smocks of sea green and Twitter blue, and square panels of fluorescent lights—blinking and bleary-edged, an arrhythmic jitter that pulsed against his nerves. The agents of her security detail stood guard outside the room, sombre in their black suits. Inside, doctors and nurses stood back from the bed. Motionless. Bowed heads. A lifeless drone blared in the background. They didn't look at him or speak to him, just drifted away one by one. He didn't hear the words the last remaining doctor said. There was only her: her hair haloed around her, her body too warm for it to be true.

When they were alone, he covered her chest with the silk that had been sheared away in a paramedic's haste. She had worn the blue blouse after all. Then he brushed a kiss to her lips. _I love you._ And again. _I love you_. And again. _I love you_. And as his tears tumbled down her cheeks, he couldn't help but think that if she'd kept her promise—_I promise I'll never go to bed angry with you or leave on bad terms_—then perhaps those would have been their final words.

They buried her in the red blouse. It smelt of laundry detergent. The rest he kept. They smelt of her.


End file.
